Reaching through the empty pane he unlocked the sash and lifted the window so he could climb through. All the time his head was up with eyes scanning. His jaw was tight, teeth clenched.
Yea, there’s nothing but old stuff in this granny house, Joe thought. That back window with the wavy glass broke like it was made of ice. I’d rather walk into a burning building than do this.
Now, a minute or so, after climbing through the back window his heart wasn’t pounding as fast anymore. He was in a small living room of this little farm house just a couple yards from the country road. The small clapboard sided, two story, house faces the direction that Joe Martel came from.
He had crossed a brook and slogged through three miles of dense New Hampshire woods and eventually climbed Cass Hill. Behind him was the Westmoreland County work farm where he had been waiting trial for car theft.
At 21 he was in his first adult detention facility and he wanted nothing to do with it. The other prisoners were stealing his food and he had been nicknamed jailbait. Last night was his first night there, and he stayed awake all night long with a stainless steel spoon that he had stolen from the cafeteria. He had filed the handle to a point. He wasn’t sure if he would use it on someone else or himself.
During the lunch break he had snuck into the guards locker room and changed out of his prison garb and made a daylight dash for the barbed wire fence while the guards were accusing each other of letting some prisoner get into the locker room.
He came out of the woods onto River Road. Off in the distance he could see Vermont. Just one problem, the Connecticut River is swift and wide. He would have a better chance swimming ashore from Alcatraz than trying to make a crossing here.
The river valley was already getting dark from the long shadows of the Vermont mountains across the river. He walked to where the front door was opposite the center stairway. There he saw the phone on a stand. He was still perspiring from his journey and his jet black hair hung long around his neck. His brown boyish eyes showed desperation. His unshaven face verified it.
He returned from the kitchen with a chefs knife. With a quick pull the phone line was no longer connected. He climbed the creaky stairs. At the top he paused.
Okay, which one has the money in it? he wondered.
“Hello.” He called, not knowing why. He shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes with his knuckles.
Yea, like someone’s going to come sauntering out of the bedroom and ask, “May I help you?” He thought.
He peeked into a room he thought might be the master bedroom. He saw movement. He pulled back. There were no sounds of movement. He looked again and saw the movement again. Only this time it was his own reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He walked in. No longer trying to be quiet. When he checked the closet for a trembling homeowner he found a rifle leaning against the side of the closet. It was a sleek looking thing.
He caressed it. He no longer felt vulnerable. He pressed the cold gun metal against his forehead. His heart beat slowed down a little bit more. He looked at the nightgown laying on the half made bed.
No men’s clothes in the closet. He scratched the bristle on his chin. Hmm, he thought, this could get interesting.
On the closet hat rack he found a box of Winchester 30-30 bullets. He looked at the rifle he was holding. It was a 30-30 Winchester with a lever action reloader. It reminded him of his favorite TV show when he was young: The Rifle Man. The star of that show had a rifle just like this and he would cock it by slinging the lever action under his arm. Something Joe didn’t want to try. Instead he loaded 7 bullets into it.
Downstairs he heard a car pull into the driveway. With rifle in hand he raced down the stars. He wasn’t scared. He was now the hunter instead of the hunted.
Joe went to the door nearest the car and waited where he would be behind it when it was opened. Soon the door opened and in walks a white haired old lady. Joe waited for her to close the door. If she wasn’t alone he wanted everyone in the house where he could control the situation. When she turned to close the door she saw the business end of her own rifle pointed at her head.
Grace, 67 year old widow was born in this house. She had married moved away and moved back in after her husband died. First she noted the clothes that didn’t really fit. Then the pant legs still smelled swampy from crossing the brook. He didn’t have a belt on and he kept grabbing the waistline to hold his pants up. The shirt was plaid and made of flannel.
Grace dropped her bag of groceries on the floor and bolted out the door for the car.
Joe Ran after her. Stop! Joe yelled. Didn’t she see that I have a gun? Joe thought. Doesn’t she know I’m in control here?
Grace didn’t stop. She still had the keys to her car in her hand and wasn’t looking back.
“I said Stop or I’ll shoot.” Joe tried to make his voice commanding.
He stopped and leveled the rifle from 15 feet away. He needed that car! When he squeezed the trigger there was just a click. He had loaded all those bullets but not one of them was chambered. He chambered a round with the gun still level but now it was getting too late.
Grace was already in the car and starting the engine.
He was going to stand in front of it and shoot her through the windshield but somehow he could imagine her driving over him. He ran across the front of the car and leveled the gun at her through the side window.
With his mind screaming NO! He pulled the trigger. With thunderous bang, and a painful recoil into his shoulder the side safety glass turned a milky white. with endless cracks but didn’t shatter. He saw blood splatter on the opposite window. He paused and walked over to claim his prize. Though he couldn’t see through the crazed side window he knew his aim was good and the blood was there too. Soon he would be putting many miles between himself and the New Hampshire Highway patrol.
As his hand touched the door handle the engine revved. There was a sound of gravel grinding under spinning tires. The car sped forward across the grass. John chambered another round.
Consciously, he thought of letting her go. If he kills her he’s a murderer and the car is wrecked. Instead of having a car he has a dead old lady and a dead car. Wait until I go back in the joint and they find out that a 67 year old lady made him look like a clown.
The rifle went off with an ear shattering boom. Now the back window crazed and shattered but it was still possible to see through it. He chambered and shot, chambered and shot, chambered and shot. The car was speeding across an open field for the river. It was running like a deer that had been shot in the heart and wants to die running.
He saw it coming, the tree, the car didn’t seem to be trying to avoid. With a thud and the sound of more shattering glass and plastic the car’s front end was caved it.
John looked at the rifle in his hands. He started to cry. He threw the rifle to the ground then dropped to his knees first then stretched out on the ground sobbing into his crossed forearms. He sobbed for about 5 minutes. Sometimes looking at the gun to use on himself. He decided suicide had to wait another day because he would probably mess that up too.
Unarmed he went to the car. When he got there he noticed that there was only the one little blood splatter. Otherwise, the car was empty. Then he heard the sirens. He was 400 yard from the woods and he had to cross the road to get to the woods. Into the clearing the police car came. He was caught standing next to the steaming car. His rifle, 200 yard away. The police car turned off the road and bounced across the field.
John raised his hands.
The officer stopped the car a few feet away and emerged gun drawn.
“Face Down on the ground, Now!”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Get on the Ground,” the officer demanded, “Put your hands behind your back.”
John, dropped to his knees and then fell face first into the grass, with his hands behind his back.
Back when Joe was sobbing on the ground, Grace got out of the car and quietly closed the door. She had been shot in the chin but she had too much adrenalin flowing in her blood to stop running. She hustled down to the river bank so she could make her way to her neighbors house without being seen by John. When she got to the neighbors house they called the police, who were already setting-up road blocks in the area. Grace had lived like she was dying for her whole life and ended up with some bonus years. She lived to be 103.